Scrambled Wardens
by Guiteau
Summary: Multiple Origins, three of them Wardens. Not everyone undergoes the Joining. The ones that don't have their own stories to tell.


**Author's Note:** This is story I've been thinking about for awhile, and finally worked up the nerve to post. I realize this isn't exactly an original idea, but I hope to present it in an original way.

**Disclaimer:** Bioware gets it all

S**crambled Wardens**

Faren felt like crap.

And not your average, everyday, _healthy_, crap. No, this was the festering, lounging all day in the sun**, **bronto-sized crap kind of feeling.

And it wasn't emotional, like overwhelming guilt. He had nothing to feel guilty about( he'd killed that bastard, hadn't he? Rica would be safe...right?) He wasn't feeling so horrible at the thought of all the men he'd had to kill to escape, either(it was self-defense; they all would have killed him, or sent him to the Deep Roads, which was like death in drag: looks fine from a distance, but the closer you get, the more you realize how much of a fool you were for not seeing it for what it was.) No, it all came down to one thing.

The sky.

From the moment he'd stepped out of Orzammar, the sky had been punching him in the stomach. It was so _big_, so all-encompassing... and utterly cruel. Every time he thought he had his bearing, he would glimpse **it**, and feel dizzy, or sick, or, most embarrassingly, fall right on his arse. _And Rica thought I could be a paragon..._

He'd tried keeping his eyes firmly on the ground, but had given up after wandering off his "path" and running into a tree. Three times. Damn, but there were a lot of trees up here.

He hated those too.

And he was completely lost. He'd been traveling for...years it felt like, and had no idea in what direction; he couldn't even find his way back to Orzammar if he wanted to, which he definitely did not. He wasn't suicidal quite yet.

So he was lost, confused, covered with mud and leaves and things he didn't want to _think _about but was sure belonged on the _inside_ of a person, with no idea where to go or what to do. The only destination he had in mind while fleeing Orzammar was _not here._ Not the most well thought out strategy, but important in ensuring his continued existence. The only thing he had even remotely resembling a plan was finding a surface dwarf, appealing to their better nature for help, and Faren knew that _that_ plan was hardly better than the first one.

The only time he didn't feel like complete nug droppings was when he was fighting. Not people; he hadn't seen any of those since his mad dash for Freedom, or at least Not Death and, honestly, he was starting to miss the presence of another person, something that had never been absent in Dust Town. Even a bloody _elf _would be welcome now; all this forest was perfect for frolicking, which, he had heard, was something that elves liked to do. Although, why anyone would want to do anything with these things other than raze them to the ground was beyond him. _Elves are insane._

What Faren fought (besides a growing sense of despair and hopelessness) was wolves. Most were small gray things, easily dispatched by a blow or two from his battleaxe. But occasionally, larger ones would come, all snapping balls of menace, and a few of those nasty beasts made for an interesting challenge; they were bolder, fiercer, and stronger than their smaller brethren. In the heat of battle, he could forget all about the trees and the sky, Rica and Orzammar, and revel in the moment. They didn't taste too bad, either. He knew how to make a fire, at least, and learned quickly the best way to roast them. And it gave the trees a purpose, a reason to exist in such multitude, making it only slightly less disdain worthy as that wretched sky.

_The sky is useless._

As he dragged his feet ever forward in Whatever Direction, Faren repeated this in his head, making it a mantra to be memorized and never forgotten. He synchronized each syllable with another foot forward.

_The sky is useless. The sky is useless. The sky is..._

As if the sky could read his mind, Faren felt another sudden bout of dizziness overcome him. Swaying, he put his arms out for balance, but the sky must have taken that too, for he found none. _By all the Ancestors, don't let me fall on my arse. I won't say a bad thing about you ever again, I'll tell everyone about the wonders of your blueness, just please don't-_

He fell face-first into the ground.

_You literal, nug-humping, hate-inducing-_

"Is that a darkspawn?"

"If that's a darkspawn, I don't know what all the fuss is about. It's so compact! Even you might have a chance of bringing it down, Neria. Not that it seems to need much help in that department."

"Oh, ha. I'll have to remember that the next time you whine at me that you need some healing. When your arm has to be cut off, you'll have only yourself to blame, Daylen."

"I _never _whine. I implore. I beseech. I've even been known to grovel. But _never _whine. And you could never stand to see someone suffering from so much as a paper cut, so the point is moot."

"It could have gotten _infected_! And Petra seemed happy enough to let me-"

Abruptly, Faren felt himself rolled over onto his back, but strangely gently; whoever it was had made sure that Faren's battleaxe wasn't prodding him _too _uncomfortably in the back.

"Hello, friend. Can you hear me? Are you injured?"

Leaning over him was a tan human, with dark hair and a ( rather unimpressive) beard. Over each shoulder, Faren could see the hilt of a weapon.

"Is he alright? Is there anything I can do?"

Standing just in view, Faren noticed a slight blond elven woman, staring at him with concern.

Past the bearded human, Faren had a clear view of a clear blue sky. Slowly, he raised his hand and pointed a menacing finger at it. "This isn't over!"

As the pair looked at him- Beard in bewilderment and Elf with mounting concern and pity- Faren heard another voice ask petulantly, "Aw, can we keep him?"


End file.
